


Tell Me Anything

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Adultery, Domestic, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Mindwiping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-12
Updated: 2007-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s harder to lie to Thompson than it is to lie to Sandra, and that more than anything tells him just how much he’s fucked this up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://yumemiru-kikai.livejournal.com/13980.html)

Her husband is a paper salesman. It isn’t glamorous, but by god, it’s stable, and she’ll take that over crazy, reckless adventure any day.

She isn’t as young as she used to be, and while she still sometimes dreams of Paris, of hiking through the Alps and drinking in Berlin and learning to speak Russian just for the hell of it, she dreams far more often of steel blue eyes and kind hands; keeping his house and cooking his meals and raising his _children… Their_ children.

Sandra closes her eyes, savoring the thought. How funny, the way things change.

She smiles and stirs the pasta.

The grandfather clock in the hall strikes five. Noah will be home soon.

\-----

Bennet closes his eyes, trying to sense his surroundings rather than see them.

It feels a little Star Wars, but he goes with it. He wants to laugh, but that would be wildly inappropriate, given the circumstances.

What the hell did she hit him with? Whatever it was, it was definitely psychoactive.

There's movement to his right, a faint rustle of cloth and even if his eyes were open he wouldn't be able to see the source.

Claude. He's a good partner. They haven't been a team for very long, but they just... Fit. They click. They're possibly the best crimefighting duo the world has ever seen.

A startled chuckle in his ear suggests he may have just said that out loud. And something is definitely wrong because he can't even feel embarrassed about it. Can't feel anything but warm and boneless. His knees buckle, and Claude is there to catch him.

"Bloody hell, pup, she got you good!" his voice sounds like it's a million miles away, but his breath is hot and immediate against Bennet's neck.

He isn't thinking, he can't think, no one could possibly expect him to think right now, so he instinctively turns his face towards that warmth; presses his lips against the source.

Claude tenses against him, arm tightening around Bennet's arm, but not pushing him away. Not pulling him closer, either.

It's not right. Noah knows it's not right.

"M'sorry," he mumbles.

Claude exhales sharply, and Noah knows he's fucked something up.

Then he passes out, cold, and when he wakes up seventeen hours later, Claude is sitting at the foot of the bed.

Good. He didn't fuck this up.

"I called your wife. Told her there was a shipping emergency in Toledo. She said it was fine."

Shit.

The next day, everyone razzes him about the girl with the poison lips; the kiss of death, and he just smiles cryptically and says they're jealous.

Her kiss isn't the one he's thinking about.

\-----

It shouldn't be this hard, having a baby.

Well, the having part was supposed to be hard, but the getting there... That was supposed to be easy. That was supposed to be the easiest thing in the world! How else had the human race managed before the cycle charts and pills and calendars and temperature regulation? But no, for some reason things had to be so damned complicated.

Sandra is frustrated, and she knows however bad it is for her, it's so much worse for Noah. He’s spending longer nights at work; going on business trips far more often, and she’s just sure that it’s because he doesn’t want to face her. That he feels like a failure, and there’s too much pressure, and however many times she tells him that isn’t true, not by a long shot, it falls on deaf ears.

He buys her a puppy, for no reason at all. A fluffy little Pomeranian. The poor thing looks kinda dim, but he’s sweet enough, and he loves her more than anything. She names him D’Artagnan, because it sounds pretty, and it’s worth it to see Noah smile and laugh at her.

They don’t make love that night; don’t pay attention to rhythms and charts and prescriptions. Instead they fall asleep curled together like they haven’t in ages, Noah’s strong arm around her waist holding her almost desperately tight.

She doesn’t ask about anything, and he doesn’t tell; they simply lie in the dark feeling each other breathe.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face. He doesn’t sleep at all.

\-----

The gunshot is deafening in the empty space, and Noah's hand trembles despite himself. It’s odd, actually staying late at work, after all the nights he's said that was where he'd been.

And where had he been? Little Rock, Costa Verde, New York City, Reykjavik, Odessa (the _other_ Odessa)...

It’s terrifying how easy it is to lie to his wife.

His hand falters, for a moment unwilling to take the shot. It’s ridiculous, that his body should revolt against such a simple, tiny movement.

Just one little twitch of his right index finger.

A hand covers his before he can see it, all long fingers and confidence.

"Careful, pup, they can tell when you don't know what you're doing"

Claude's voice is a warm presence in his ear and he immediately feels steadier. Feels the impulse to lean back into the unseen body behind him and just hide.

And just like that his hands are shaking again.

"I know how to fire a gun." he spits defensively, pulling away from his partner.

Mocking laughter, and the hand on his slips away. "Oh, sure. That paper fella down there's absolutely quaking with fear." He doesn't need to see Claude to know the face he’s wearing, amused and teasing, a hint of something nebulous in those twinkling blue eyes.

It doesn't mean anything. _Can't_ mean anything. It _isn't_ anything, doesn't even _exist._

Claude's voice drops the teasing lilt, warm breath against the curve of his neck and he's not going to react; he’s not going to close his eyes.

"Don't let it surprise you. You should know what you're capable of."

Then that hand is on his again, drawing the gun up, and he sights the target without thinking about it. He empties the clip, and the bullets hit so closely to one another that it looks like one hole. One big hole right in the heart.

A hand grasps his shoulder; an innocent, friendly gesture.

"There may be hope for you yet, rookie."

Then the invisible man is gone, footsteps echoing faintly through the warehouse.

Noah packs up his gun. It’s nearly time for dinner, and Sandra will be worried.

He loves her so much.

He drives home that night still feeling the warmth of Claude's hands on him.

It doesn't mean anything.

\-----

His shirts smell of sweat and adrenaline; some intense physical activity beyond working in paper sales.

At first she doesn’t worry, not too much. They never smell like another woman, and even though he’s frequently away on business or kept late in the office, he’s always with his sales partner, Claude, so he wouldn’t even have time for…

She still isn’t worried, because that’s ridiculous. She’s tired and frustrated and lonely, and now she’s jumping to insane conclusions. By the time she pulls the load out of the dryer, it’s mostly forgotten.

But the next time she does the laundry, it’s a little less ridiculous. And his shirts still smell so strongly of exertion, of _him_ , and her heart aches in her chest.

She comes home one evening to find him using the washer. “Just thought I’d get a head start,” he says, smiling at her so sweetly. “Why don’t you take a load off, relax a little?”

She nods and walks away, sagging to the couch in a determined effort not to cry. And she doesn’t, until later in the night, when she realizes that the only clothes he washed were the clothes he was wearing that day.

\-----

"I'm married," he gasps between kisses, breathing the words into Claude's skin. Claude doesn't answer in words; just tightens his hands in Bennet's hair and lets the younger man continue ravishing his neck.

"I'm married," Bennet repeats, but still doesn't stop; greedy hands working at the buttons of his partner's shirt.

"I know," Claude replies, and there's something sad and resigned about the way he says it, even as his hands push Bennet's jacket off his shoulders.

Noah hisses like he's been burned, and redoubles his assault on Claude's neck, licking and biting down his collarbone, following the movements of his hands to trace every inch of newly exposed skin with kisses.

"I'm married, I'm married, I'm married..." he whispers like a mantra, in the space between breathing and kissing.

Hard hands on his arms pull him up, and Claude is staring at him, intent and breathless. "Do you want to stop?"

He hesitates for a moment, thinks of Sandra (God, he loves her so much.), of the agonizing weeks behind him and the very real possibility that this... whatever it is (it exists, it's real, and he _wants_...) could ruin a job and a partnership and a friendship and a marriage...

"No," he decides, and finally, _finally_ Claude leans in, bringing their lips together.

\-----

“You can tell me anything, Noah,” Sandra begins, a little weakly. “You know that, right?”

There’s a flicker in his steel blue eyes, a faint flash of emotion that’s too brief to identify but too strong to ignore before he’s meeting her gaze, level and calm and oh-so-distant.

“I know, Sandy.” He replies, calculated confusion coloring his voice. He kisses her cheek, stands up and starts to leave the room, but she can’t let him do that. She can’t leave things like this.

“You certainly have been spending a lot of time with Claude,” she blurts, wincing at the accusation in her tone.

He doesn’t turn back to face her. “He’s my partner, Sandy. My sales partner,” he clarifies needlessly, and if that isn’t a loaded word, then she’s never heard one. But she’s still so hopeful, and he loves her, she _knows_ he does. He has to.

Her hand finds his and holds it, trying to let all the love and forgiveness in her body show through that small gesture.

“I love you, Noah.” She rests her cheek against his shoulder and he’s so tense…

He squeezes her hand briefly before letting go, and he still won’t turn and look at her.

His voice is shaky, unsteady. “I love you, too.” And even as those words are still echoing in her head, weak but full of relief, he regains his composure. “I’m sorry. I’m late for work.”

And he’s gone.

\-----

It’s harder to lie to Thompson than it is to lie to Sandra, and that more than anything tells him just how much he’s fucked this up.

Of course he wouldn’t leave a gun where she could find it; that’s ridiculous, and Thompson knows it. Bennet is certain the man knows what’s really going on, those cruel lips drawn up in a mocking smirk. But still he agrees to help.

The Haitian boy unnerves him, all endless dark eyes set in dark skin, and he seems so _old_ ; as if he’s already seen all the world has to offer, can see into Bennet’s very soul, and isn’t impressed by anything he’s found.

“I… I appreciate your assistance,” Bennet manages. The boy doesn’t answer, merely follows him into the living room where Sandra sits, brushing D’Artagnan.

“Noah, I wasn’t expecting…” she notices the boy and smiles, and _god_ it’s been a long time since he’s seen her smile like that. “Hello there!” she waves cheerily, and the Haitian actually smiles back. It’s the first time Bennet has seen the kid show any emotion at all.

Then the boy is staring at him, and his gaze is piercing and cold. It makes Bennet’s heart drop to the pit of his stomach, and he finds himself defending against words that aren’t being said. “I wish there was another way, I really do. But… god, can you just do this, please?”

Sandra’s brow furrows in confusion “Noah, what on earth is going on here?”

There’s a tight lump in his throat all of a sudden, so he just takes her hands in his. The boy comes up behind him, hand outstretched, and rests his fingers against Sandra’s forehead.

“Just look at me, Sandy,” Bennet chokes. “I love you, so, so much.”

Then the boy removes his hand, gives him another hateful stare, and leaves the room. Sandra blinks a few times and looks up at her husband as if seeing him for the first time.

“Hey, sweetie,” she grins, leaning in to kiss him, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

He kisses her hungrily, holding her body close, one hand buried in her long curly hair. She giggles playfully, pulling back and swatting his shoulder lightly. “Well, _someone’s_ affectionate today!”

He just laughs and holds her close. “I just have a beautiful wife that I love to pieces, that’s all.”

There’s a sinking feeling in his heart, a sense of _this can’t last_ , but he ignores it. He’s done it, he’s fixed it, and he’s not going to let it go again.

Then his phone rings, and Claude’s laughing accent on the other end of the line tells him he’s needed at work. And wanted other places.

He kisses his loving wife goodbye and shrugs his jacket on without a second thought.

\-----

Her husband is a paper salesman. It isn’t glamorous, but by god, it’s stable, and she’ll take that over crazy, reckless adventure any day…


End file.
